Dead man at my Doorstep
by Humanoid Life-form
Summary: Sherlock and John have been receiving unexpected visitors. T just to be extra careful.
1. Chapter 1

_John. -SH_

_John. -SH_

_JOHN. -SH_

_Mrs. Hudson's dying, John. -SH_

**_What!? Call an ambulance! I'm on my way!_**

_There. Now I've got your attention. -SH_

**_That wasn't funny._**

_It wasn't supposed to be. -SH_

**_Well? What do you want?_**

_I want you to bring me some Deuterium Oxide from St. Barts._

**_And would you care to tell me why?_**

_Experiment. -SH_

**_Haven't you got anything better to do?_**

_I could shoot up the walls again if you prefer. I've got a lovely Father Christmas planned for the sitting room. -SH_

**_All right, all right. I'll see to it when my shift gets off. _**

_I was hoping to begin the experiment as soon as possible. -SH_

**_I suppose you'll have to wait, then. _**

_Not if you left now, I wouldn't._

**_Fine._**

**_Just leave the walls alone. _**

_Very well. -SH_

John Watson sighed, running a hand through his short blondish hair as he stuffed the phone deep into his pocket. Muttering some choice words about where Sherlock could stick his bloody Oxides, he strode over to the hospital doors.

"Shift over already?" A woman called after him.

She was a young, pretty thing by the name of Lisa Barringer, and worked as a part-time nurse.

"Oh- yeah, flatmate's going on about something or other, got to go check it out-"

She laughed.

"Happens every other day, doesn't it?"

John's reputation of leaving shifts halfway was apparently beginning to spread.

"He's an odd sort." He replied shortly, turning to leave.

"I see. Catch you later, John."

He watched her go, flaxen hair bouncing in its ponytail as she went.

The cold London air smothered him like an icy sheet, and the skies were their usual soft grey.

He was thankful for his thick jacket as he raised one arm in the air, hoping to flag down a cab before the scruffy-looking man who was mooching about behind him did.

After what seemed like hours of wait (bloody cabbies) he finally managed to stop one, wrenching open the sleek black door and climbing in.

"Saint Barts," John grunted, pulling the door closed.

"You're letting in cold air," complained the driver, a foreign-looking man who was wearing layers upon layers of jumpers.

John stared.

"You're sitting in an air-conditioned cab."

"Bloody London cold." muttered the cabbie, and that was the end of their conversation.

Their cab inched through the traffic, and the cabbie seemed to care less. John leaned back in his seat, pulling out his phone once more. Hopefully Sherlock hadn't started on the walls yet.

_**Caught in traffic. Should be at Barts in **_

He peered out the foggy window, gauging the traffic.

_**Should be at Barts in twenty.**_

And then:

_Forget the Oxides. Come back to Baker Street at once. -SH_

**_What the hell's happened?_**

_No time to explain. -SH_

John put down the phone, dreading what lay ahead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow! Thanks for the response, you guys! I really appreciate the feedback :)**

* * *

John swallowed as hundreds of horrible scenes began to race through his head.

The flat had been robbed. Sherlock was in danger. Mrs. Hudson had been attacked (again.)

He closed his eyes, trying to elicit some calm. It was Sherlock, after all. It could be that they were out of milk, and Sherlock was simply overreacting. He cleared his throat.

"I'd like to go to Baker Street, actually."

The driver grunted.

Thankfully, the surrounding traffic had dissipated, and they arrived at Baker Street in less than ten minutes. Peeling some notes out of his pocket, John swiftly paid off the cabbie and rushed up the steps. He banged on the black-green door as hard as he could, and after several moments he heard the shuffling footsteps of Mrs. Hudson. She slowly opened the door, and John noticed immediately that she had been crying.

"Mrs. Hudson! What's happened? I got a text from Sherlock and you know him, all cryptic-"

Seeing John brought on a fresh wave of tears. Her heavy eye makeup blurred and ran, and she fell, weeping, into a nearby chair.

"Oh, John- it's horrible, just _horrible_-"

John had heard enough. Leaving Mrs. Hudson to sob, he ran up the stairs two at a time. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he cursed Sherlock for his need to be so bloody mysterious.

"Sherlock!" He yelled.

"John."

Sherlock was at the doorway of the flat. His hair was disheveled and he was on his knees, peering at something on the ground.

"John, I need your help."

"With what?" He walked forward, trying to see what Sherlock was looking at.

Then he stumbled back, a gasp of surprise escaping his mouth.

Because there, on the floor, was the dead body of a young woman.


End file.
